The Finalist

The sun set lazily on the rows of houses on Privet Drive, casting long shadows across the empty street and immaculate lawns. Vernon Dursley was devouring the last bits of meat off the bones of the roasted chicken that had been his evening meal only moments ago. His teeth ripped at the morsels that dared to defy his frantic feeding.

Today had been a good day. It was exactly a week since that boy had left in the dead of the night. Vernon had finally decided that he was definitely not coming back before the beginning of the next term at that place. Petunia relieved him of his dinner plate and presented him with a heaping serving of cherry pie which crumbled slightly as Vernon began his assault once again. She wouldn't say anything right now, she knew better than to bother him while he was eating, especially after last week. Vernon grimaced as he remembered the crushing events of this past week. There was one good thing that had come of those events at least, Vernon thought optimistically as he continued to shovel his dessert into his mouth, pausing only occasionally for a huge gust of breath. At least now, finally, the last shadows of that wretched diet they'd had to put Dudley on had vanished. Petunia had known that they would not have made it through this week on that rabbit food. As Vernon smugly licked his sausage like fingers, collecting the last of the gooey jelly-like filling, he allowed himself to remember those fateful events.

They had gotten the large, official looking letter only a week in advance. That should have been the first clue: he could see that now because surely this was important enough that one week would not be enough time to properly prepare. He remembered those glorious words as he had read them.

Dear Mr. Dursley,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected from a vast pool of individuals to be a finalist for our most prestigious award: The All-England Best-Kept Suburban Lawn Competition. This honor is presented to only the most breathtaking lawns in England. We here at the Best-Kept Suburban Lawn Competition travel to over 300 suburban neighborhoods to find only the best lawns to be considered for this honor.

We would like to extend our early congratulations for having one of the number one lawns in England, as well as to invite you to join us for a ceremony in which last year's winner, Jerry Lewis, will present the winner with a certificate and The Golden Lawn Trophy. Should you win, you may choose to make a speech upon receiving your award; however, this is not required. Enclosed are directions to our event as well as an itinerary for the night's events. We hope to see you there and congratulations again.

Michael Thomson

Founder and chairman

They had gone of course. The mantle had been stripped of all but a few of Dudley's portraits and two large impressive candles, making room for the magnificent golden trophy pictured in one of the pamphlets sent with the letter. They had all gotten dressed in their best clothes and everything had been perfect. Naturally the boy had been left at home; they didn't want him messing up such an important honor such as this. They had driven for over an hour to claim his reward. Finally someone had recognized his perfect lawn. He had recited his speech to himself once more as they arrived at the building that should house the ceremony and he proudly marched in.

Vernon sighed; this was where his memory started to get fuzzy. The little man with the small golden name tag at the front desk hadn't even tried to contain his laughter when he asked which way to the All-England Best-Kept Suburban Lawn Competition's award ceremony. That was when the fiery waves of fury washed over him, making the edges of his vision blur and take on a red tint from the blood pounding in his head. He had seen Petunia's look of horror as he lunged himself at the desk man and attempted to throttle him for his insulting laughter. He remembered Dudley pulling him back, barely able to manage it even with his newly discovered boxing strength. He remembered being pulled back outside and he assumed it had been Petunia who had driven home where they all three knew what they would find: the boy was gone.

The next three days were spent taking inventory of everything they owned to be sure that the boy had not helped himself to anything. The first night had been a sleepless one, all three of them expecting something catastrophic and magical, but they had made it, it was now a week later and they had made it. Vernon sighed again and sipped his coffee, preparing to lift himself from the chair and migrate to the living room. There he would sit and enjoy the evening news while trying to ignore the gaping hole on the mantel which served as a reminder of the award he had almost received. He was not able to replace the photographs, and other objects, as though he half expected the real letter to arrive any day now.

The sound of Dudley's heavy footsteps sounded in the doorway signaling his return from wherever it was he had told Petunia he had been. Vernon settled into his favorite chair, smugly and acknowledged to himself that his son was clearly the superior child, far better in all ways than that miserable menace he had inherited. Vernon vaguely wondered as he drifted off to sleep if that boy would be the death of him, or if he would someday manage to escape this cosmic punishment he suffered for producing the perfect child.